Unhindered by delusions and madness

I popped into a Prezzo for breakfast this morning on the way to the British Museum, and discovered the egg and sausage pizzulata. It’s only served for breakfast. What an excellent invention. Suffice it to say, I didn’t have a beer given it was 10am. It was, however, just one in a long line of discoveries today.

The Roman Legion was a well oiled machine and we found out all about it today in an excellent exhibition at the British Museum. John had organized it yonks ago and it was the main reason I was in London.

Waking in my student accommodation at silly o’clock, I headed down to Starbucks which is very close, for my usual latte. When I told Mirinda where I was she called me a Capitalist which I think was a bit rude. Surely a vodka Socialist like me deserves a treat now and then.

I feel I should say something about my accommodation. It’s an interesting situation when you come across a ‘don’t drink the water’ sign in the bathroom. The guy in reception warned me about it, saying I should only drink the water in kitchen number two. Kitchen number two is quite a distance from my room. Still, it’s better than drinking the bathroom water, I suppose.

The kettle was very welcome as was the tray full of coffee, sugar and milk containers. Most welcome indeed, particularly first thing in the morning.

The bed is a camp bed and not that comfortable but the room is way too small for a big bed. I guess students would be happy enough but as a full grown, old man, I find it lacks that fond embrace one prefers from a real bed.

Possibly the worst thing, though, was the noise. All night. The singing at 3am was unnecessary unless the idea was to wake me up. Which it did. I got up and looked out the window. A small group of obviously inebriated men were standing by the seats behind Tate Modern. One appeared to be a Swiftie. As I explained to the Weasels, later in the pub, I’m just not used to the noise.

But enough of that. Having had my latte, I decided to take a long, leisurely stroll along the Southbank before heading across Waterloo Bridge to the Strand.

I stopped a few times for short rests. The Southbank is one of the few places that I found where a person can sit down. I’ve never noticed the general lack of sitting opportunities in London before. It was surprising and annoying. Finding a free bit of wall to lean against was also more difficult than it should have been.

There was a lot of people in London today. I think most of them were heading for the British Museum if the queue there was anything to go by. I think I’ve been spoiled by Stockholm. Except for that time on Gamla Stan, it’s rarely uncomfortably busy. It was fine, given my slow pace and inquisitive wandering. It clearly wasn’t for a young woman selling ice cream. I rarely see someone look so utterly miserable. I wanted to cheer her up but, having served me, she hid behind her cones and didn’t come out again.

I eventually made it to The Plough, our chosen rendezvous and, being the first one there, I bought a beer, claimed a seat and waited. Bevvy arrived and joined me, telling me how Jon had broken his leg. Apparently he just fell over. He complained about it but Bev told him it was just a sprain and to stop carrying on. Three days later he insisted it was broken and they finally went to see a doctor. It was broken and he’s now in one of those big, spacesuit type plastic boots. I told her she’s a harsh wife.

Eventually, the others joined us, ready for a full Weasel assault on the Roman Legion.

Fortunately, the 15 mile long queue outside the museum was not for us. We were politely ushered to the special pre-booked queue which was a few miles shorter and led to the bag check area. Having noticed my stick, a helpful person offered to let me straight through but, I insisted on putting up with the same indignities as my fellow Weasels.

I had my shoulder bag with me because it didn’t feel safe leaving things like my passport behind in the room. I’m sure it would have been fine (no-one came into my room) but I figured it was less of a hassle if I just took things with me. For this reason, I had to endure the brief glance a smiling chap gave it before ushering me forward.

The exhibition was excellent and enlightening. And not just because of the details and artefacts. An American woman came up to Tom, Bevvy and me at one stage as we were discussing something and sounding knowledgeable. She said that we clearly knew stuff and so she asked us a question about the Iron Age or Bronze Age or something. We helpfully answered her question.

She then produced her phone and showed us some pictures she’d taken of some Assyrian statues elsewhere in the museum. She asked us what we thought the things that looked like handbags were. The ones clutched by the long bearded figures.

Tom suggested they were handbags and, when she looked confused, he asked if she always carried her handbag and, when she said yes, he gave a gesture that said QED. Her well crafted reply was that they were men. I said she was assuming they were men because they had beards. She then drifted into conspiracy theories about aliens and cover-ups.

Fortunately, she then left us, saying she wished she could join us because we were more fun. I don’t know who we were more fun than. Maybe her husband and kids? That aside, we wandered the many exhibits and read the labels unhindered by other people’s delusions and madness.

While the Weasels drifted apart, going at their own pace, we all ended up back at the Plough for a few much-needed libations and general critique of the crazy people we’d met. Lindy left us to it as she had B&B guests to tend to.

Of course, the Plough wasn’t the only pub we visited. We also went to The Harp, heading upstairs because, naturally, it was very crowded in the bar. We squatted on stools before a group left the comfortable banquette against the wall. We quickly claimed the comfort and happier group of Weasels you’d be hard-pressed to find.

There was a very loud group upstairs with us but, as usual, we eventually cleared the room of them and anyone else foolish enough to discover the joys of upstairs.

Eventually, Bevvy had to dash – she’d already missed a number of trains and thought it would be rude to miss another – while the rest of us had yet another beer.

Finally, we walked down to Charing Cross where we all parted ways. I made my slow way back to my lonely, noisy room.

Another excellent Weasel Adventure.